


It's Not Personal, It's Business

by sweettartine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bakery AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, You've Got Mail AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweettartine/pseuds/sweettartine
Summary: The bakery Harry inherited from his grandmother is on the brink of going out of business. The new coffee shop opening up across the street is sure to be the final nail in the coffin. To add insult to injury, the coffee shop general manager is extremely attractive. Harry's only comfort during this nightmare is his internet crush.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 54
Kudos: 211





	It's Not Personal, It's Business

**Author's Note:**

> This is a You've Got Mail AU, set during a wintry midwestern Christmas time. It's not really a Christmas story, but hopefully you find it to be cozy. This is my first fic in this fandom :)
> 
> My tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://sweettartine.tumblr.com/post/636805443151429633/its-not-personal-its-business-by-sweettartine), if you'd like to reblog it.

Harry was always covered in flour. Flour in his hair, flour in his nail beds, flour in the creases of his eyelids. It was dark when he got to the bakery. Baker’s hours had been a tough adjustment fresh out of pastry school, but now Harry loved it. Having that quiet early morning was relaxing. He met Niall at the backdoor to the bakery and they went in together, flicking on lights and getting settled in the kitchen as they went. 

There was a habit of silence for the first hour or so as Harry prepped dough for donuts and pastries, and Niall got started on bread. Harry had a birthday cake to bake, and Niall would do a handful of pies. It was starting to get cold outside, a midwestern winter about to announce itself at any moment, but it was warm in the kitchen with the ovens preheating and the giant mixer turning out batch after batch of dough. 

He felt a spear in his heart about his little bakery. He’d inherited it from his grandmother when she’d passed, and in the three years he’d run it himself, he couldn’t quite understand how he was going to keep it open for any length of time. Every month they got by seemed like a godsend. He knew this part of his life couldn’t last forever, but he just wanted it to last for a little bit longer. 

Instead of worrying, he listened to Niall talk about hockey (the Wild were bad this year...and maybe every year) and he inserted his own opinions about the Green Bay Packers, which Niall rolled his eyes at. They’d been friends since culinary school. Niall knew Harry was only capable of talking about one sport, and it wasn’t hockey.

By the time they opened, Harry was having a good morning. Warm from the kitchen, covered in flour, vaguely sticky. He saddled up to the espresso machine to make Mrs. Feindman her morning latte, and listened to her chitchat to Niall about her daughter who she was always trying to set someone up with. She had been very disappointed to learn that Harry was gay. 

“Harry dear, did you hear about that coffee shop moving in?” she said as she took her latte from him. He always made it not-so-hot for her because she had a ‘delicate palate.’

“Coffee shop?” Harry had _not_ heard of a coffee shop. The end of town Harry’s bakery was on was lacking in the coffee arena. It’s why he got an espresso machine in the first place - he’d been bullied into it. 

“Yes dear, one of those chain ones, like Starbucks.” 

“But not Starbucks?” Niall asked. Niall was a slut for Starbucks, and Harry forgave him because he had an especially generous soul. 

“No dear, one of those Tomlinson ones, I believe. I know you think you’re too good for those city hall meetings, young man, but you would learn a lot.” Her attention was focused on Harry. She’d been friends with Harry’s grandmother before she passed and left the bakery to him. Harry’s gran had always gone to the city hall meetings. 

Harry groaned. “Ugh, I’d rather have a Starbucks. The Tomlinson Cup is so pretentious.” The Tomlinson Cup was a second wave coffee shop parading as a third wave shop, with single origin coffee and options to brew it pourover, aeropress or _fucking siphon pot._ But it was too corporate to feel like a real third wave shop, which Harry could have respected. Harry couldn’t stand going into one of those shops. They were popping up all over the Twin Cities and the metro, and Harry was over it. “It’s just a cup of coffee, for godsake.” 

“Well dear, you know exactly how I like mine, so you’re not at risk of losing this customer. But now you know.” She shrugged as she headed out of the store to open up her own shop, a little thrift craft store that Gemma loved. 

“So I guess it’s going in on the corner,” Niall said. They’d been speculating as to what was going into the corner shop for a while. It had been a dry cleaner, then a dog groomer, and it had been under construction for a while. 

“They’re going to ruin Maxwell Street,” Harry grumbled. Harry had grown up just blocks north of Maxwell Street. The bustling little two blocks of shops on the _main drag_ where Harry’s bakery was were his community. His home. When he’d moved back after culinary school to work in his grandma’s bakery before she passed and left it to him, he rented a basement apartment in a house four blocks from his childhood home. He could walk to work. 

“I know you love it here, man. I’m sure Tomlinson will go out of business. No worries. All is safe on Max Street,” Niall said. Harry could tell he was using his ‘calm the beast’ voice. He tried to put it out of his mind.

-

Harry headed home when he got off work. It was the crisp beginning to October. October in Minnesota could feel any number of ways, from the end of summer that September should be, to the March dead of winter. Today it felt like a true autumn day, the breeze light, a few trees on his walk home starting to turn. He’d detest his walking commute when the snow came and he had to stretch ice cleats over the bottom of his shoes so he didn’t die, but he couldn’t deny it was a nice day. 

He carried a loaf of bread under his arm for dinner that night. Every Sunday he and his sister went to their mom’s house. Harry always brought the bread. Gemma brought an app or something for dessert. Their mom and her husband took care of dinner. When Anne had met Robin, she’d moved deep into the suburbs, and left their city spot right at the edge of Minneapolis. It meant Harry had to get in his car to go see her. 

He had a couple dead hours to fill before he had to leave though. He kicked his shoes into a pile by the door and unwound his scarf, hanging it and his coat on a hook. He tossed the bread - a round and beautiful sourdough - on the kitchen counter. His apartment was exceptionally small, just a little pocket of space in the basement of an old house. It had its own entry, and while some may have felt claustrophobic by the slightly short ceilings, Harry always felt safe there. 

The apartment was decorated with thrift store finds and hand-me-downs from his mom from when she combined households with Robin. He had stuff from his childhood tucked against trinkets from thirft shops and antique stores. He loved history, loved anything that had a personal feeling to it. Loved anything that someone else had loved before. 

There were photos in frames and concert posters and wall hangings covering every vertical surface, and much to Niall’s dismay, there was no TV. Just a huge bookcase, an oven to bake in, a record player, and an acoustic guitar propped up in the corner. He collapsed into the couch and reached for the guitar, his fingers plucking idly to judge by ear whether it was in tune enough to play. 

He leaned against the back of the couch, guitar in his lap, and slid his phone out of his pocket. This was his favorite passtime. He opened up Twitter and tapped the envelope icon at the bottom. He didn’t have a new message from Tom, but that was fine. He was perfectly happy bothering him. 

_Leaving in a couple hours for my mom’s like normal. What are you up to?_

He put his phone on his knee, and let his fingertips find the strings, forming a chord without really thinking about it. He strummed a bit, warming up his fingers. 

His phone buzzed, and he looked down to see a new Twitter notification. _Working. Always working._ He added the eye roll emoji at the end. 

Harry tapped out a response. _Literally what is your job. Take a break. Go for a walk. It’s beautiful._

Harry had met Tom on Twitter, off a thread about the Minneapolis music scene. Harry had DM’d him about a particular record he’d mentioned he’d scored at the Electric Fetus, and they just...hadn’t stopped talking for almost four months now. It seemed like every moment Harry had to pause throughout his day either meant he was sending or receiving a Twitter message. 

_It’s freezing out!!! And you know the rules. No particulars._ He’d started his Twitter account to talk about his record collection, so he didn’t have any personal information on it. To him, Twitter felt like when he was a kid in an AOL chatroom. Anonymous. He liked it that way. 

Harry smiled at Tom’s message. When they had started talking, they decided to keep things anonymous. Tom also had chatroom nostalgia. Harry didn’t think they’d keep it up forever, but it was kinda nice to get to know who Tom was on the inside, without knowing all the trappings of his day-to-day life, outside of the city they shared. 

_You’re such a freeze baby. And fine, I won’t ask. But tell your boss you deserve a raise. I swear you’re working whenever I message you._

Tom's reply came quickly. _That’s because you get off work at like, one in the afternoon. I’d think you worked part-time or something, but you’ve also messaged me at four in the morning when it was not an emergency, so really you’re just insane. Those are baker’s hours, shit. Or maybe you’re a nurse or something?_

Harry felt a jolt of electricity go through him. They were baker’s hours, because Harry was a baker. 

_No particulars,_ he shot back. _What are you doing with your night? You’re going to get up and eat at some point, right?_

Harry put his phone back on his knee and watched the typing bubble pop up as he strummed his guitar. He unclipped his capo from his headstock and popped it on the third fret, changing the key. He plucked out a few chords, eyes on the bubble still. 

Finally he got a response. _I’ll make a sandwich._

_Ugh, you’re hurting my heart! Listening to you talk about food kills me, T._

_Well, babe, then you’d better bring me leftovers from your mom’s place._

Harry couldn’t help the butterflies in his stomach. It was stupid to harbor this crush on a boy whose face he’d never seen, whose full name he did not know. It didn’t make sense that one ‘babe’ from a virtual stranger could make him feel like all of the stress in his life could just melt away. 

_You know I wish I could._ It felt like flirting because it was flirting. His...whatever he had, friendship he guessed, with Tom. 

He waited for a response but one didn’t come. Sometimes it was like that. One of them would push the boundaries, the other would get a little freaked out, and it would be quiet for a while. After some time passed, a new message would be sent, and they would start fresh. Harry figured it was one of those times. 

He set his guitar down after not really playing it, and hit the shower. His bathroom was original to the house and powder pink. The tub, the sink, the toilet, the tiles. All of it. It’s part of what sold him on the apartment in the first place. His landlord Marcie had apologized, but Harry couldn’t pretend he wasn’t charmed by it. His color. Pink like the frosting on a donut. 

He washed the flour out of his hair and off his face and felt like a new man. He picked out some black skinnies, and a shirt he’d barely button, and spent twenty minutes trying to get his hair as dry as possible before putting it back in a bun. On his phone he had a couple Twitter messages and a text from his mom. 

The text from his mom requested that he bring some decaf coffee grounds so they could have coffee after dinner. The request was for...french vanilla. Which Harry couldn’t imagine choking down. He certainly didn't already have any in his cupboard. He’d have to go to the store and weigh his options. 

The other two messages were from Tom. 

_Alright alright_

_I’m going to go get some dinner. Not a sad sandwich._

Harry just smiled and sent him a handful of vegetable emojis. 

_Yeah probably not that either, but good try._

He just shook his head and put his coat on. He grabbed the bread, and pointed his old Volvo toward the grocery store. 

He felt lost in the coffee aisle. He had to admit that he just took home beans from the bakery that he bought wholesale for himself. Niall had picked out the beans. Or maybe Liam. He didn’t remember, but it wasn’t him. 

He found a decaf french vanilla, but it was eight bucks, and sounded disgusting. He tossed the bag between his hands as he ran his eyes over the options one more time. 

“You look paralyzed,” a voice from next to him said. Harry jumped, turned to look at who the voice had come from, and almost jumped again. 

The man standing next to him was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen in his life. He was only slightly shorter than Harry, his stance wide and confident. His bangs were swooped over clear blue eyes, and he was wearing an oversized sweater that made him look criminally cuddly. He had a basket in his hands, nearly empty. Just a plastic container of grocery store sushi. 

“Um, I’m not great at coffee. I’ve been asked to pick up decaf vanilla coffee and that sounds...gross to me. Wondering what else I can get away with honestly.” 

The man laughed and a smile bloomed over his face, bright as the sun. Why was he _so cute._

“That’s a challenge for sure, I’d recommend getting a light roast. It will have a naturally sweeter flavor to begin with. And then maybe some vanilla creamer, cause anyone looking for flavored coffee is going to put cream in it anyway. Decaf isn’t the most flavorful option but…” the man scanned the shelves and picked up a bag of The Tomlinson Cup beans. They’d just started popping up in stores, and Harry was just...annoyed. 

“Aw, no no anything but Tomlinson,” he groaned. It’s possible that the man looked slightly less cute with a twelve ounces of Tomlinson coffee beans in his hand. 

“What? Why not? Do you not like the flavor?” He looked almost offended, and Harry hated that. He hated the idea that he’d offended the tastes of a _stranger._ God, he was so midwestern. 

“Just the pretension,” Harry explained. “You know, that like, fake third wave BS. Plus they’re opening a shop by my bakery and...you don’t care, whatever, I’ll buy the beans.” He took the bag from the man’s hands, realizing halfway through his speech that he was only doubling down on his rudeness. After what he said, there was no way to not buy the beans. 

He tried switching tactics. “Thanks. Genuinely. I’m Harry, by the way.” He held his hand out to shake, because his mom raised him right. 

“Louis,” he said. He had a strong handshake, and gave Harry a wave as he headed toward the dairy section to grab flavored creamer too. Shit, he was going to be late for dinner. 

-

There was a lull at the bakery on Tuesday morning, and Liam was flirting with the enemy. 

Harry watched him from behind the espresso machine as Liam leaned so far over the bakery case Harry thought he might end up in the man’s lap. Harry could hardly fault him. The man he was flirting with was objectively gorgeous. He was just stubble and eyelashes for absolute days, sleeve tattoos sticking out the bottoms of his leather jacket. If he hadn’t come in saying his name way Zayn, and he was the manager of the new Tomlinson Cup moving in and wanted to meet the neighbors, Harry would have offered to officiate their wedding right then and there. 

“We’re kinda famous for our cinnamon rolls,” Liam said, taking one out of the case and slicing it up with the bread knife they kept on hand to cut up samples. He offered the plate to Zayn and he took a piece, letting out an indecent moan when the sugar hit his tastebuds. Harry looked away. Jeez. 

“I understand why,” Zayn said, leaning against the glass, flirting back. “I’ll take four.” Liam’s hands trembled as he boxed up four cinnamon rolls, cleaning them out for the rest of the day. That bastard. 

“Great to meet you, Liam,” he said as he paid, laying it on thick. “And you too, Harry,” he tacked on as he headed out the door. 

The door shut with a clang, and Harry got up to give it another good shove into the jamb. It was the time of year when it was just cold enough that the door got wonky in the jamb without a little encouragement. Regulars knew to pull tight behind them. 

“Wow,” Liam said when Harry finally looked at him. He arched his eyebrow at Liam. 

“Gonna take the man putting us out of business to bed, then?” Harry asked. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

Liam huffed a laugh. “You’re a drama llama.” 

“You’re a twelve-year-old girl.” 

“They’re not going to put us out of business. It’s not like they sell pies!” 

“Coffee is a good third of our business now, and we need every penny it brings in,” Harry argued. They were closed every Monday, but earlier that Tuesday morning, they had another dose of gossip. Then Niall did some googling. The Tomlinson Cup opened in two weeks. Harry had half-moon indents in the palms of his hands from his nails, the sharp bite of pain taking his mind off what he thought could easily be the end of things for him. 

“We’ll be fine,” Liam argued. “Our customers are loyal. We’re an institution, for gods sake.”

Harry just hummed. Liam knew the financial state of things around here better than anyone. He did the books. Liam and Niall were both rays of sunshine that usually got Harry through a lot - like the holiday baking that they had coming up. 

When he looked up at the clock, it was already one, which meant Harry was heading out. Liam would be there for another couple hours and would close up at three, then work on some admin stuff for an hour or two. Harry wasn’t sure how he ran his business without Liam and Niall. 

—

On the day the Tomlinson Cup opened, Tom sent Harry a playlist on Spotify. It was called “Hustle Hustle” and had a bunch of upbeat songs on it. 

_I have such a busy day today. Thought this might help you get through your day too._

It was a Monday and Harry was technically off, but he was still at the bakery doing inventory and recipe testing gingerbread croissants since his apartment was too small for any serious dough lamination. 

He wielded his rolling pin like a weapon, beating the dough into submission as he folded in more and more layers. By 9 am, he was tired and cranky. He needed coffee, but he didn’t want to make a gallon of it, as his percolator would make, and he wasn’t about to clean the entire espresso machine for one or two shots. 

And he knew the Tomlinson Cup was opening today. 

It was professional curiosity more than anything, right? He tossed his dough into the fridge to chill before he rolled it out, and paused Tom’s playlist. He headed out the back door, and made his way to the new coffee shop, kitty-corner from the bakery. 

He was almost embarrassed about being here. He didn’t want anyone to see him, wanted to pull the hood on his jacket over his head. He wanted anonymity. 

Instead, he got the manager, Zayn, whose name he remembered because Liam had said it about forty times since Zayn had come in to try their cinnamon rolls. 

“Welcome,” Zayn said, a surprised smile on his face. “Didn’t honestly expect to see you in here. Did your coworker come?”

“Liam? No, um, I’m just here for coffee so I don’t have to clean my espresso machine. We’re closed Mondays.” 

“Yeah, Louis found that out when he went to bring you guys coffee this morning as a hello present. I’ll comp whatever you get this morning.” 

“Louis?” Harry asked, confused. 

“The general manager. He’s in back now.” Zayn raised his voice to shout back into the back room, and the door swung open to reveal the most beautiful man Harry had ever seen. The same _most beautiful man he’d ever seen_ , actually. From the coffee aisle of the grocery store, where he’d successfully convinced him to buy Tomlinson decaf. His mom had really liked it, but he wasn’t about to tell Louis that. 

“Lou, this guy owns the bakery across the street.” 

“Oh, do you?” Louis asked, smile on his face. He recognized Harry, no question. “I guess your hesitance about the coffee I recommended the other day makes a little more sense now.” 

“I guess so,” Harry agreed. 

“Tried to bring you guys coffee this morning. Peace offering. Not open Mondays?” 

“We’re open through the weekend. We need a day off. It’s a small operation,” he explained. He could hear how guarded and defensive his voice sounded but he couldn’t help it. Tomlinson, on the other hand, was not a small operation. It still smelled like new construction under the scent of coffee. The espresso machines were huge automatic monsters, instead of the sleek manual machine Harry had paid a zillion dollars for. There was dark subway tile and dark wood, and lots of green, leafy plants. Harry wanted to take a nap in there. Really, he just wanted to leave. 

“What can I make you?” Zayn asked. Harry snapped out of his daze. 

“Oh, um, an Americano,” he said, handing over his card. Zayn waved him off. 

“Comped, remember?” 

Meanwhile, Louis rustled around the bakery case, taking out a bunch of pastries and putting them into a box. He slid them across the counter at Harry, and Zayn quickly followed with his coffee. 

“Those are on the house too,” Louis said. “Taste the competition.” He raised his eyebrow suggestively, licked his lips. Harry was agitated. That was unfairly sexy. He was frustrated that this dumb coffee shop was going to ruin his business, and frustrated that he wanted to stick his hands up Louis’ shirt. Liam could never, never find out about this. He’d never hear the end of it after so much razzing about Zayn. 

He got back to the warm haven of his bakery’s kitchen and dissected the bag of pastries Louis had given him.A croissant, a blueberry muffin, and a little custard tart. He picked up the croissant first. He smelled it and didn’t get any meaningful aroma. He took a taste, and it was almost crispy on the outside, over baked, with some weird glaze on it. Inside it was dry. 

Okay. So...disappointing. They weren’t a bakery. Harry knew that. It was unfair to judge them the way he’d judge his own baked goods. Onto the muffin. He cut it in two because it was massive, and while there were blueberries visible in the crown of it, the rest of the muffin was almost devoid. The muffin itself was dense and cakey. Crumbly for what seemed like no reason. 

The tart was just as disappointing, and a little burnt on one side, disguised by a slice of strawberry. 

Well, at least his ego wasn’t hurting. If a coffee shop was going to put his bakery out of business, it wouldn’t be based on the quality of their baked goods. 

Harry swept it all into the garbage because he was a snob. When you owned a bakery, you didn’t eat sub-par muffins. Harry respected himself too much for that. 

He popped Tom’s playlist back on, and the song that was playing in The Tomlinson Cup came on. It must be popular, even though Harry had never heard it before. 

He rolled out his croissants and arranged them onto a baking sheet, sliding them into the oven. Usually when he was baking in the morning, he would have plenty to do to keep busy while something was in the oven. Today he just opened his phone. He replied to the family group text and the bakery group text. Then his fingers found Twitter without him even trying and before he knew it he was tapping out a message to Tom. 

_Listening to your mix. Kinda wish you were here._

He hit send before he realized how desperate it sounded. He needed to rein it in. 

_Aw, baby. Wish I could be. I have the same mix on. It’s like we’re looking at the same moon._

Harry smiled a smile that turned down at the edges. Soft, fond. 

_You’re a nerd,_ is what he sent back though. 

He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear, then watched it blink for far too long. When the message finally came through, Harry heard himself gasp. 

_Should we meet?_

He tossed his phone down on the counter. Tom could see that he’d seen the message. He could tell that Harry wasn’t typing back. Long moments passed. 

_Or, no, sorry, forget I mentioned it._

No, no, no, Harry was sweating and his oven timer was beeping and too much was happening all at once. He grabbed his phone. 

_Of course I want to meet,_ he sent, his heart beating into his throat. His hands were shaking. He didn’t even check if his croissants looked done before he yanked them out of the oven and tossed them on the counter. His eyes were focused on his phone. 

_Oh, rad._

_What do you think of maybe this weekend? I know you work weekends but I’m having an unreal week already. Would love something to look forward to._

Harry did a little dance right there in the kitchen, right in front of his croissants. _Works for me :)_

_Saturday? After you’re done with work and stuff?_

_YES_ Harry sent, and pressed his phone to his heart. 

_Then I’ll see you Saturday, baby._

Harry melted straight to the floor. When he finally peeled himself up from the tile, he took a triumphant bite of croissant. They were actually pretty good. He’d save some for Niall and Liam to test tomorrow. There were four left, so he cleaned up the kitchen, turned off the lights, locked up, and headed back over to the coffee shop. He still felt sinking dread whenever he thought of what the shop was going to do to his bakery, but he was high on the idea of meeting Tom. He dropped the croissants off as a peace offering. Louis wasn’t behind the counter, but Zayn was there, and he took them happily. (“If they’re anything like your cinnamon rolls I should probably just eat them all right now and not share, right?”)

-

Harry just wanted nice things. 

“He’s a serial killer,” Niall said, tinkering with his sourdough starter as the two of them hung out in the kitchen on Thursday. He’d kept his meeting with Tom a secret for two and a half days, and he’d been right to. Niall was just bringing him down. 

“How is meeting someone from Twitter different than meeting someone on Tinder?” Harry asked. He was frosting cupcakes. He loved frosting cupcakes; a big pastry bag of frosting in his hands, a repetitive swirly motion to create a rose on the top of each one. They came out so _pretty,_ and Harry would only admit to himself that pretty cakes were what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. 

“Dunno,” Nial said. He was adding flour to the vat the starter lived in to feed it. It was just...goo. Goo that naturally leavened bread without yeast. Harry had tried sourdough in the past and...well, he’d pass on all bread actually. That’s what Niall was there for. They’d gone to culinary school together, and had been best friends since they were nineteen. Harry was very, very anxious at the prospect of Niall not having a job if the bakery had to fold. Maybe more so than himself, because he felt such a fierce sense of responsibility to him. 

“We’re meeting in public,” Harry said. Tom had picked a little cafe in South Minneapolis that Harry had only been to once, but it had been a good visit. Tom had good taste. 

“Text me every ten minutes,” Niall said. 

“Absolutely not,” Harry said. But he probably would text him every fifteen. Just then, the front door opened, the bell hanging above tinkling. 

Gemma came in, wearing big sunglasses and a red plaid coat. Harry was a little jealous of the make-your-own-hours that came with being a freelance graphic designer, but he didn’t envy the part of her job where she had to please clients. For the most part, Harry got to bake for himself.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” Harry said, taking a paper cup from the stack to pour her a cup of coffee. Harry was pretty sure Gemma ran on coffee. 

“Oh wait, I already got some,” she said, holding up a cup he hadn’t noticed in her hand. _Tomlinson._

“Not you,” Harry groaned. It had been three days, and Harry had already noticed a drop in coffee sales. He was just hoping it was just because The Tomlinson Cup was new. 

“Hey, you weren’t going to make me pay for that anyway,” she said, and she was right. “I dropped off my library books so I figured I’d go check out your nemesis. Did you know your nemesis is like, very cute?” 

“Oh, the one that Liam has been lusting over unabashedly? Zayn?”  
  
“Hm? No, I mean the shorter one. Louis, I think?” 

“You’re on a first-name basis with him?” Harry asked accusingly, Louis’ clear blue eyes flashing in his mind. He wanted to press him up against a wall. He wanted to see if his hair was as soft as it looked. He wanted to never see him again. 

“He was wearing a name tag, doofus,” she said. Harry could tell he was overreacting, but he didn’t know how to rein it in. When it came to the bakery, he was fiercely protective and not much else. “Anyway, thought he was your type, is all.” 

Harry turned his back to her in order to put the empty coffee cup he was still holding away. And to hide the fact that she was absolutely correct. 

“Their pastries are really bad,” Niall said in solidarity. On Tuesday morning, Louis had come back to the bakery again with four coffees because he obviously didn’t know how many people worked there, and a handful of baked goods. 

“Well, not everyone can have the gifts of Nana Styles passed down directly into their souls.” Gemma liked to bake well enough, but as a kid, their grandmother had always made it abundantly clear that Harry was the one who had a special touch with it. He was an intuitive baker, while Gemma was a recipe baker. It was the difference between writing songs and playing covers, and Harry wrote songs. “The coffee is good.” 

“Well I hope you enjoy it, because it’s the last cup you ever buy from them,” Harry said. He pulled some trays of donuts from one of the bakery cases and rearranged them, condensing a few of the picked-over selections onto one tray. He handed Gemma a cake donut with chocolate frosting. Her favorite. It was a _forgive-me-for-being-crabby_ donut, and they both knew it. 

“Fine fine, I’ll just keep getting it here for free. Not sad about that. Well, I’m out. Stop being so pouty about that coffee shop, you’ll be fine.” 

-

Harry wore his hair down, brushed until it shone, pushed back and carefully tousled out of his face. It was a little cold for his shirt to be so unbuttoned, but it felt rare to get to dress up and not wear his chefs whites that he bakes in every day. He was wearing black-on-black, and had been careful not to accidentally get flour on himself on his way out the door. 

Harry had gotten to the cafe first, apparently, and had ordered an iced coffee while he waited for Tom to get there. He had a rose in a copy of Norwegian Wood set out on the table. The signal that they had agreed on. Under the table, his foot kept bouncing, keeping in time with the spikes of anxiety that he was feeling. 

Tom was late. 

He’d messaged Harry to let him know, but he could arrive at any moment, and Harry’s shaky hands had almost knocked over his iced coffee about five times. 

At four fifteen, he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the door open. But it wasn’t Tom. He only knew that it wasn’t Tom because it was Louis. Why was it fucking Louis? _Shit. Fuck._ Harry tried to casually hide himself behind his hand so Louis wouldn’t see him there. Why was he here, ruining yet another part of Harry’s life?

“Hey, neighbor,” Harry heard in Louis’ raspy voice as Louis dragged out the chair across from Harry to sit down. He had a plate with a sandwich on it in his hand. 

“Oh, no no. I’m meeting someone. You have to go,” Harry said, pushing his plate toward him as a clear signal to vamoose. 

“They’re not here yet though, are they?” Louis asked, looking around the room as though he could tell Harry was pathetically sitting here waiting for a man he had a giant crush on, even though he’d never met him. 

“Not yet, but he should be soon,” Harry said. He felt pathetic. He crossed his arms in front of him. 

“Well I’ll get up and leave when he comes. How’s your week been?” Louis took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed while looking expectantly at Harry. 

“You want to know how your coffee shop has affected my numbers then?” Harry asked. It wasn’t what Louis had exactly asked, but it felt like what he must be getting at, right?

“Huh? No, Just like, I went in there after work yesterday and you were out of those gingerbread croissants and I was disappointed. How early in the day do I need to get there in order to get one?” 

It took Harry aback. It’s not what he’d been expecting. 

“Oh, um. We’ve been selling out quick. I think next week I’ll need to make a double batch to get them to last past ten.” 

“Okay, I’ll get there before ten then,” Louis said. He took another bite. It did look like he was eating quickly to get out of Harry’s hair.  


“What are you doing down here?” The coffee shop was north of the city. It wasn’t a long drive down here, but it wasn’t a drive someone would make just for a sandwich. 

“I live down here,” Louis said. “In this neighborhood. Just grabbing some food. I’m off today, but I’m going to go check in on the shop anyway, first Saturday and all. I’m sure Zayn has it under control, but well, you’re a businessman. You get it.” 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. Harry had an iron grasp on his bakery. He had a hard time ever taking time off. He struggled with delegation. That’s what Liam told him at least when Harry had very reluctantly asked for his help with the books. He went to school for _pastry_ not accounting. 

Louis took the last couple bites of his sandwich and took his plate. “Well, I’ll let you get back to waiting for...someone,” he said, raising his brow at Harry as though he didn’t believe him. “Come by the shop anytime. Free coffee for my favorite new neighbor.” 

“The bakery has coffee,” Harry said defensively, thinking about the massive drip brewer that he’d gotten second hand at a restaurant supply store. It was...fine. It wasn’t pour over single origin whatever Louis charged five dollars a cup for, but then again, Harry didn’t charge five dollars a cup. Maybe that was the problem. 

The door swung shut behind Louis, and for a moment Harry couldn’t remember why he was even there. 

Then his phone buzzed. 

_I have bad news_

_I’m so sorry_

_I can’t make it_

And Harry’s heart sunk. 

-

Niall was in his kitchen. 

They didn’t hang out at Harry’s apartment very often because of how small it was, but Niall’s roommate was having a dinner party and Niall and his roommate were best when they were ships in the night. He was planning on sleeping on Harry’s surprisingly comfortable second (or third) hand couch. But first he was planning on getting dinner out of Harry. 

There was soup on the stove that Harry was dutifully stirring, and Niall, in true Niall fashion, had found harry’s acoustic guitar fractions of a second after walking through the door, and was serenading Harry with acoustic arrangements of Nsync songs. 

Harry usually loved this shit, but he was not in the mood for it. 

Niall was halfway through a soft and chilling rendition of Pop when he stopped suddenly, leaned the guitar against the wall. “Still a little broken hearted?” 

It had been four days since Harry had gotten stood up, and his heart was still bruised. He’d snapped at both Niall and Liam on Sunday, the day after, and had been even crankier afterward. He hated himself when he was like that. 

It was Wednesday, and it was barely five o’clock at night, and Harry hadn’t had a good meal all week. He’d even skipped Sunday dinner feigning a migraine. 

“We’ve just like, barely messaged at all. What if he got there, saw me, and decided like, _oh, nevermind yikes_.”

“You, Styles?” Niall asked, leaning against the kitchen sink. It meant that if Harry turned toward him by bare degrees, he could practically kiss him they were so close. “You’re a babe, babe.” 

“Your opinion doesn’t count.” 

“Hey! I’m straight, not blind. What I’m saying is, I dunno. He probably ran into some legit problem.” 

“Weren’t you just telling me he was a serial killer this time last week?” 

“Well, sure, but aren’t serial killers into beautiful people? And you’re the most beautiful of them all. I think maybe it’s your bone structure.” 

“There is a compliment hidden in there somewhere.” 

“I’m not saying forgive him,” Niall said. “Maybe I am saying that. I’m not sure. What I am sure about, however, is that I am very hungry.” 

Harry rolled his eyes and dished up the soup. If Niall thought he could stand to forgive Tom, maybe he would. Life got busy. Emergencies came up. He missed his internet friend. He’d work on forgiving him. 

-

Most of the time, Harry loved being Minnesotan. Minnesota had all the best things. Honeycrisp apples, Prince, a big mall he hated to admit that he liked, the mountains of snow that he loved as a kid. 

The mountains of snow that he now hated as an adult. 

When he’d arrived at the bakery in the morning, it hadn’t started snowing yet. He’d driven because it was so _fucking cold_ and maybe he deserved a break from walking to work every morning when it was so early most people thought it was still night time. Sue him.

But now he was attempting to get out of the back parking lot, and due to a combination of how the snow had been plowed, the ice that had formed from a brief mid-morning bout of sun followed by the chill that had made Harry drive that morning, and the fucking piece-of-shit rear-wheel-drive car he owned, he was stuck. 

He’d done just about as much reversing and gunning it forward that he could do. At one point, he probably could have fully backed out, but he’d been stubborn. He’d missed his opportunity. He pounded his fists on the steering wheel and climbed out of his car. 

“Fuck, _FUCK_!” he shouted, kicking his front tire. He’d be there until he shoveled himself out, and he was just pissed and crabby. He’d burned the gingerbread croissants that morning, and someone who had ordered three pies never came to pick them up. And texting with Tom had been as awkward as ever. 

He popped his trunk to grab his shovel and started into it, scooping up snow and tossing it _wherever, just out of the way_ in motions that were almost violent. He did have to admit to the good fortune of it still being light out at least. There was one good thing about baker’s hours in the winter. 

“Hey!” a voice called, and when Harry looked up, he groaned. Louis. Great. Just what he needed now — a reminder that his business was failing. Wonderful timing. 

Harry didn’t respond. Just went back to shoveling. 

“Hey, man, shit. Can I help you?” he asked. He had a big forest green scarf covering most of his face, rosy cheeks peeking out the top of it, his side swept bangs hanging down from a mustard beanie. He was wearing a coat that didn’t look warm enough for this weather, but _fuck,_ he was annoyingly cute. 

Harry just huffed a sigh. “I don’t need help from you.” 

Louis’ brows knit, and he looked around for two seconds before spotting the shovel that Amy, the owner of the little used book shop next to the bakery, kept by her back steps. 

He walked back over to Harry’s car and started shoveling out by the other rear wheel. He didn’t add any commentary, just kept his head down as they cleared the piled and packed snow from around Harry’s wheels. 

Harry was in full pity-party mode. Usually Christmas time was his favorite time of the year, but this year he felt like he’d been grumpy through the entire lead up. It was nearly Thanksgiving, which meant it was nearly Christmas, and Harry had been grumpy since at least Halloween. He did not appreciate the way the universe just kept shoveling it on. Pun fully intended. 

“Alright, I think things are looking good. Do you want to try?” Louis said, gesturing to the driver’s seat for Harry to get in. His face was even more flushed, his breathing coming heavy from the hard work. 

Harry nodded. Louis reached for his shovel to hold while they tested out the current situation. Harry turned his car back on and gave it a little gas. Not enough to spin his tires, but just enough to get some traction. Things were looking good for a moment until he felt his wheels slip again, and he slid back to where he’d been. 

He collapsed on his steering wheel for a moment, frustrated and embarrassed. This would be easier if Louis wasn’t watching him. Or, if not easier, at least less embarrassing. Why was Louis even here?

He got back out of his car. 

“Maybe try backing up, and going out the other side of the alley?” 

“It’s steeper,” Harry said. All he could imagine was his wheels slipping again. 

“Back up and then give yourself a little more momentum to get out this side?” Louis suggested, and...fine. That was a better idea. 

He got back in and backed his car up. The shoveling was enough help to release his car from the stranglehold it had on it before Louis showed up. He put his car back into drive and gave it a little more gas. With the momentum, he made it out of the alley parking lot. 

The side street was quiet, so he parked on the curb and popped his trunk. Louis put Amy’s shovel back by her door, and brought Harry’s shovel all the way to his trunk, wiping off excess snow with his glove. 

“You’re all set,” he said, a smile on his face. Louis had the kind of face where even if he wasn’t smiling, he still looked happy. Add a real smile on top of that and it was a little blinding. 

“Thanks,” Harry said, because he was grumpy but he wasn’t raised in a barn. “Why were you out here?” 

“I was at the bus stop,” Louis said, pointing to the stop outside the coffee shop. “My car didn’t start this morning, speaking of winter car troubles.” 

And because he wasn’t raised in a barn, and his mother would be incredibly disappointed in him if he didn’t ask, “Can I give you a ride home?” 

“Oh, no man, I’m all the way down in South. I’m fine on the bus.” 

They both turned their heads to the bus stop where Louis’ bus was driving right past it. It was cold enough out that Harry didn’t want his window down anymore. Another bus would come, but not for at least another fifteen minutes. “I can’t in good conscience leave you here,” Harry said. 

“Are you sure?” 

“You got your good deed out of the way today, let me get mine,” Harry said. He rolled the window up, and reached across the car to push the passenger door open. Louis circled the car and got in, dropping his backpack to the floor between his feet. He directed Harry to the highway, then through the twists and turns of his little South Minneapolis neighborhood. 

“I’m up on the right, almost at the end of the block here…yeah, this one,” Louis said, as Harry pulled to a stop, careful to line the passenger door up with the walkway to the sidewalk, so he didn’t let Louis out right into a snowbank. Louis opened the door and then paused.  


“Hey, do you want to come in for some tea or something? Or dinner? I have pork chops I was going to make.” 

“Oh, um, I couldn’t,” Harry said, stumbling over his words in such an annoyingly midwestern way. 

“Please,” Louis said, and Harry remembered back to ten minutes ago when the conversation was reversed. “It’s sad to cook for one.” 

And didn’t Harry know it. He twisted his key in the ignition and let the engine die. “Okay,” he said, not really knowing why he was accepting. But he found himself following Louis into a turn of the century story-and-a-half home with a spiral staircase right in the center, and the kitchen tucked around behind it. Harry left his shoes at the door, and Louis hung their jackets up in the closet, then led him back to the kitchen. 

“Is it just you here?” Harry asked. The house was decorated simply and minimally, but it looked like someone had put some thought into it.

“Just me,” Louis confirmed, and grabbed a couple wine glasses from the cabinet. “Red?” he asked, and Harry nodded. Louis gestured for him to sit at the two-person table in the corner of the kitchen, and accepted the wine glass that Louis gave him. Harry didn’t drink much because being hung over at four am when you had an entire bakery case to fill with donuts and pastries wasn’t much fun, but one glass couldn’t hurt. 

“What about you?” Louis asked. 

“Hmm?” Harry was looking at the photos Louis had on the fridge. Lots of young women with his same face. Little sisters?

“Do you live alone?”  


“Oh. Um, yeah, I have a little basement apartment by the bakery. Usually I walk to work, but I thought it was too cold this morning. Bad decision.” 

Louis laughed. “My car also thought it was too cold.”

Louis rummaged around his fridge for a bit and pulled out armfuls of food. “Pork chops, baked sweet potatoes, salad. Sound good?” 

“Sounds delicious,” Harry said, standing up. “What can I help with?” 

“Nothing, sit, sit,” Louis said. His kitchen was like the rest of his house—kind of small. But it was _his_ , and Harry was jealous of it. 

He didn’t sit though. He just moved closer to the fridge to get a closer look at the photos. Louis was prepping the potatoes for the oven. 

“Related to you, obviously,” Harry said, pointing at a group shot of a gaggle of people, and two babies. 

“My siblings,” Louis said, his face breaking open in pride. He pointed each of them out. Even the babies were his brother and sister. 

“So many,” Harry observed. “You’re the oldest.” 

“Yeah. Mom loves babies. Passed that gene down to all of us I think.” 

“You want kids?” Harry asked, and rapidly wished he could take it back. Harry wanted the kind of family Louis had. So many kids it was ridiculous. If he had a womb he’d probably already have one. As it stood, things were a little trickier when you were gay. 

“Absolutely. At least four,” Louis said. “Can’t imagine any fewer than that. Need the chaos. It’s kind of awful living alone, but my siblings are here enough to have claimed the bedrooms on this floor.” 

“Is upstairs just your room?” 

“Yeah,” Louis said. “Kinda have to crouch in some spots, but as my realtor not so kindly pointed out, I’m the perfect man for this house. Thanks _Jerry.”_

Harry’s laugh came easy. Being there was surprisingly easy, in Louis’ warm kitchen, as he heated oil in a skillet to sear the outside of the chops. 

Harry was deeply, deeply upset about how his bakery was doing, and how it was all Louis’ fault, but he also couldn’t help but be distracted by the delicate way Louis moved in his kitchen. He was confident and careful, and Harry couldn't keep his eyes off of Louis’ slim shoulders, the dip of his waist. If someone asked Harry to describe his exact type, he’d describe Louis. 

Louis, who was the reason his business—his life—was teetering on the edge. 

“What made you get into coffee?” Harry asked, to shift his own focus away from the way Louis’ hair curled at the nape of his neck. 

Louis looked over his shoulder to where Harry was, still by the fridge, leaning against the counter. He shrugged. “The Tomlinson Cup is my uncle’s business. Nepotism is how I got into coffee,” he said, laughing. “I started in high school as a barista at the first one, and worked my way up. This is the first store that I’ve really been in charge of. I’ve managed stores before, and I’ve been a district manager for a while, but they’ve all been established stores. So I really have to prove myself with this one. Plus I’m addicted to coffee,” he added. 

“That is not dissimilar to how I got my bakery. It was my gran’s.” 

“Oh,” Louis said, voice soft. He tucked the pan with the pork chops into the oven to finish cooking, and fully turned to Harry. “So it’s quite special.” 

“I grew up in that bakery. I went to school for pastry, but I swear I learned more from my gran than from a program I paid for—that I’m still paying for.”

“Can I ask how it’s doing, or does that count as some kind of...I don’t know, not conflict of interest, but you know what I mean.” 

Harry sighed. “You’re kind of the last person I want to admit that I’m struggling to.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re the reason I’m scared for my business.” Harry couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice. And he hated _hated_ the way Louis’ face went tender and empathetic. 

“Harry,” Louis started, instinctively moving closer to him. His kitchen was bigger than Harry’s, but everyone’s kitchen was larger than Harry’s. Louis was suddenly very close, then Louis’ hand was on Harry’s arm, warm through the shirt Harry was wearing. “I didn’t pick where the shop opened up—”

“Don’t,” Harry said. “I don’t think I can talk to you about this.” 

“I love your bakery. Your bakery makes me embarrassed for the baked goods we sell, honestly.” 

Harry laughed at that. “It should. Your coffee is good but your pastries are...not.” 

“Alright, alright,” Louis said, his face lightning from the pity that was on it in the moments before. He took a sip of his wine and when his timer beeped, he grabbed the pork chops. 

Louis let Harry assemble the salad, and soon enough they were sitting at the little table in Louis’ kitchen, talking about their Christmas plans. Louis liked to spend as much time with his family as humanly possible. His mom and siblings lived in South Minneapolis still, and Louis admitted that he bought his house six blocks away on purpose. He couldn’t bear to be any further. 

Harry told Louis about Gemma and his mom and step-dad, about how it would be the first year Gemma was bringing a boyfriend for Christmas, and how it meant she’d be gone Christmas Eve to be with his family. Harry appreciated how Louis intuitively understood that Harry was cranky about it, even though he shouldn’t be. 

“Christmas Eve is my birthday,” Louis said, “so my family will always have to spend both days with me. It’s mandatory. No celebrating Christmas on my birthday. You have to be present for both.”

“I wish there was a level of mandatory celebration for our family. It’s just...change is hard,” Harry said. It felt heavier now than it ever had, the looming through that much more than his family’s Christmas Eve plans were about to change. 

Louis didn’t press him. Louis was actually a lot easier to hang out with than Harry had been expecting. He thought he’d be terribly pretentious, but he was just relaxed. He talked about the play the big twins were in that fall and how he built sets for it. He talked about how he babysat the little twins at least once a week so his mom and her husband could have a break. He rambled on about how much he still loved his favorite band from high school, The Killers, his eyes sparkling with joy. 

As soon as the topic turned to music, it was all over. After dinner finished, they ended up in the living room drinking wine and listening to records, Harry pawing through Louis’ collection and putting on whatever he wanted, Louis humoring him. 

“I shouldn’t be spending really any money right now, but there are just so many albums I love that I don’t have on vinyl for some reason, and it makes me want to go fucking bankrupt,” Harry admitted, turning over Louis’ copy of Let it Bleed in his hands, waiting to put it on the turntable. 

“I can’t pretend I’ve always been great with money,” Louis laughed. “You’re not exactly looking at a series of solid financial decisions here.” When Harry looked up from his spot on the floor in front of the record player to where Louis was perched on the arm of the couch, he caught Louis giving him a soft look, almost sweet. His hair looked so soft that Harry just wanted to bury his hands in it. Wanted to press kisses to his wine-stained mouth. 

Harry was a glass and a half in, and he felt a little warm but he didn’t feel buzzed. He was good to drive, and it felt like he needed to leave _immediately,_ or he never would. 

Louis’ face fell when he realized that their record party was over. But he didn’t let the smile leave his face for long. When it reappeared moments later, it didn’t look as genuine. “It’s probably past your bedtime,” Louis laughed. 

Harry checked the time on his phone. It was seven-thirty. “I know that’s just a joke, but it’s almost not a joke.”

“And I thought coffee hours were bad.” Louis walked him to the door and helped him into his coat, and as Harry walked down the front walk to his car, he let himself admit that he _maybe_ had a little teeny crush on the man who was actively destroying his livelihood. 

And he didn’t know what to do about it. 

-

As much as Harry hated missing even a single day of work, going into your food service job when you’re actively barfing is frowned upon. Thankfully for him, he was able to pull in the cavalry of his sister-with-a-flexible-schedule, and Liam to come early and help with finishing touches as he wallowed in his sick bed. They may not have made as many pastries today, but at least Harry wasn’t in the corner barfing into a wastebasket and touching things with his germy fingers. 

Unfortunately that meant that Harry was barfing into his pink toilet at home, alternating between being freezing and burning up. His t-shirt was sticking to his back, and he was _achy._ He wanted to sleep for days. He didn’t even know _how_ he got sick. All he knew was he went from feeling just a little off to regretting he had a body at all. 

He had very little handle on what time it was when he heard knocking at his door. His phone was still on his side table in his bedroom. He hadn’t so much as thought about Instagram in hours (a record) as he lay on the bathroom floor with a towel covering him, the only blanket-like thing close enough to him to grab to cover him without having to get up. 

But now he did have to get up. Whoever was at his door was getting the wrath. It was probably Gemma, who he wouldn’t even be able to be mad at after she covered for him in what was the middle of the night for her.

He walked on shaky legs toward the door, grateful for how little his apartment was, until he finally unlocked it and pulled it open. And it was—

“Fuck,” Harry said, weary to absolute bones when he saw Louis Tomlinson standing in front of him. “Why?” he whined. 

“Um, hey, I stopped by the shop and they said you were sick. But it’s too busy there for anyone to stop in and see you. So I said I’d bring you Gatorade and stuff,” he said. He had an armful of groceries and a hopeful smile on his face. 

Harry wanted him to leave, but Louis took a tentative step forward and all of the sudden he was in Harry’s apartment. In his kitchen. He closed the door behind him, shutting out a gust of frigid winter air. 

“I know this was a surprise. You weren’t sleeping were you? I’m so sorry if you were.” Louis looked genuinely concerned. It was throwing him off. 

“I...don’t know,” Harry said. It was the truth. He genuinely had no idea if he’d been sleeping or not. He had been on some hazy edge of sleep in the very least. 

“Well I brought Gatorade, and ginger ale, and crackers, and oh, soup from the deli section, so it’s already hot. Where are your bowls? When was the last time you ate? It’s a stomach thing, right?” 

Louis helped guide Harry into a chair at his two-person kitchen table, and suddenly he was pawing through Harry’s kitchen, getting a bowl and a spoon, pouring out half of the soup into it. He poured the Gatorade into a cup and put a straw into it, looking comfortable taking care of someone. 

“Can’t eat too much at once, alright?” he said, putting the bowl down in front of him and looking at Harry with worried eyes. 

“What time is it?” Harry asked, too tired to even look at the clock on the stove. 

“Almost noon,” Louis said, brushing Harry’s bangs back to test his forehead with the back of his hand. It was a sweet gesture and Harry couldn’t hate him for it. 

But he did. 

Harry felt like shit, and the soup was good, and he knew he needed the Gatorade. He would probably be able to keep it down too. It had been a while since he’d last thrown up. 

But he was mortified, and so uncomfortable with Louis in his apartment. Louis, with his perfect fancy coffee shop, and his name brand jacket, and his pretty eyes. Who decided that Louis could just show up here to bring him soup and ginger ale? How rude. 

Harry still ate the soup, famished and weak. He wasn’t sure he’d even been so tired. Louis put the ginger ale and Gatorade in the fridge, and then slipped out a sleeve of crackers out of the box. 

“Let’s get you back in bed, how bout?” Louis said when Harry had finished his soup. Louis kept a hand on the small of his back as he guided Harry through Harry’s tiny, embarrassing apartment, to his bed with the tangled, mismatched sheets on it. Harry was in boxer briefs and a white t-shirt, dirty and stretched out from a day of laying around in it. He struggled into his sheets, but Louis helped him, carefully pulling the comforter up over his shoulders. Harry was too tired to fight it. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Louis asked. 

“No, I’m okay,” Harry said. He felt like a baby. Like a little kid. He also felt like it would be nice to have someone around to take care of him when he felt sick. He hadn’t really had that since he was a kid. It was nice that Louis brought him food and Gatorade. 

“Alright,” Louis said. Harry could hear his hesitancy to leave. “There’s Gatorade and ginger ale and crackers on your side table. Looks like you have a bucket down here too. Eat something small every once in a while. Stay hydrated, alright? Do you have my number if you need anything?” 

“You live in South,” Harry argued. 

“That’s alright. If you need something I can come back.” Harry knew he would too. 

“I’ll be okay.” 

“I’m putting my number into your phone anyway,” Louis said, pointing Harry’s phone at him until it recognized his face and unlocked. Harry was glad that he at least wasn’t too sick for his phone to recognize him. “Please call me or text me if you need anything.”

And then Louis was gone. And Harry slept for about five hours straight, waking up to a message from just a half hour before, from Louis. _You alright?_

He smiled, sent him a quick _I’m alive_ , and finished off the soup. 

-

In Minnesota, your survival depends on the quality of the down comforter on your bed. Especially if the apartment you’re renting has old, poorly insulated windows. If Harry wasn’t so work-obsessed, he’d have a dog by now, just to have another warm body in his bed. Outside, the wind howled, rattling every pane in every one of his few windows. 

Inside, he was curled up in bed with a cup of hot tea and a book, his electric mattress pad turned on high, an extra blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and another extra wrapped around his feet. He’d be wearing mittens if it was feasible to turn pages with them on. He wasn’t wearing his Packers beanie, but it was on his side table, just in case. 

He snapped a picture of his book and his cup of tea and his pile of blankets and sent it to Tom. In the weeks since he’d stood Harry up, they’d steadily increased their messaging until it was basically normal, which is to say, near constant. His phone buzzed hardly thirty seconds after he sent his message. 

_Looks like you need someone to keep you warm._

Harry melted a bit. He couldn’t help it. He felt like even though he didn’t actually know Tom that he knew him. They had the easiest connection Harry had ever had with anyone, including Liam and Niall. At first, Tom had been charming and sarcastic, able to tap Harry’s sense of humor without even trying. Now, there was a hefty mix of overt flirting getting mixed in as well. 

It was embarrassing to be kind of gone on someone you didn’t know, but Harry blushed. He didn’t know what to say back. 

His phone buzzed with a new message. Harry’s hands shook as he opened the photo, his book and his tea completely forgotten. Tom was in bed too, blankets disheveled around him. He was on his back, his shirt rucked up enough to see a good few inches of skin that was tan still, even in this sunless tundra. He had soft plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispered out loud to himself, his heart hammering in his chest. 

_Maybe that’s too much_ , his next message read. 

It kind of was too much, but Harry didn’t want to discourage him. 

_You’re beautiful,_ is what he typed back to Tom. He couldn’t stop the tremble in his fingers. It took a couple tries to make sure each word was spelled correctly. _But maybe you’re the one who needs someone to warm you up._

_You’re not wrong_

Harry knew his hands were too cold to jerk off. He knew that one photo of the torso of an otherwise fully clothed man should not be enough to get himself off on. He had to reign it in. 

He knew he couldn’t not respond to that, but he didn’t know what to fucking _say._ He took a breath and just typed. 

_Do you ever want to run away to somewhere warm where the climate isn’t actively trying to kill you all the time?_

Tom’s responses came quick:

_Every day of my life_

_Except for the four perfect days a year we get here._

_But I can’t leave. Too much family here. And unfortunately, I love it._

Harry smiled to himself. If anyone else talked shit about Minnesota, he’d ask them to take it out to the parking lot. But if a Minnesotan talked shit, he could relate. It felt like making fun of your little brother. Only you and your siblings can do that. Not that Harry had a little brother. 

_Exactly my feelings as well,_ he told Tom. 

_Maybe you just need a tropical vacation,_ Tom suggested. 

Maybe he did. _Way outside the budget,_ he typed. _My business isn’t doing so hot right now. And it’s not really viable for me to take time off in the first place._

_Sorry about your business._

And then in a surprising two seconds, Harry typed the words that had been floating around in the back of his mind for weeks that he didn’t want to look at head-on just yet. He surprised himself by typing it. 

_I think I’m going to have to close soon._ He’d told Tom some vulnerable shit before. When he and Tom weren’t trying their hardest to make each other laugh, they had some deep fucking conversations. But nothing felt as vulnerable as this. As admitting this terrifyingly sad thing to a person he’d never met before. 

_Oh fuck. H. I’m so sorry._

_I haven’t told anyone yet,_ Harry typed, feeling tears he didn’t know were welling up brim over and drip down his cheeks. He wiped them with the sweater that was pulled over his hand, but they just kept coming. _I don’t want it to be real._

_Baby,_ Tom sent. It was stupid, to set his book aside and curl up deeper in his blankets so he could imagine Tom there, arms wrapped around him. It was stupid, but he did it, thinking about having someone pressed to his back, keeping him warm and safe. Someone to wipe his tears away. Tell him that everything was a mess now, but it would work out. 

His phone buzzed again. _I wish I was there._ And Harry was weak and stupid, and maybe a little desperate. 

If he’d been making good decisions, he would have restrained himself. But Tom was somewhere in Minneapolis, and well. So was Harry. _Come over?_

The response took too long. Harry could see that he was typing, but he couldn’t take it. He moved to his Twitter timeline instead of his inbox and scrolled for a while, none of the words really entering his brain. Tom’s message popped up and from the preview Harry wished he was still scrolling his dumb feed. 

_Oh, baby. Jesus, I promise I wish I could. I’m babysitting tonight. Can’t leave. Fuck. Any other night and I promise I would._

Harry sighed, put his phone to sleep and shoved it under his pillow. As the minutes passed, he could feel it buzzing over and over again. It took almost a half hour for him to pull it out from under his pillow again. His tears had dried. Minute after minute of deep breaths slowed his heart rate. He was almost glad to have something other than the bakery to be disappointed about. He had a pile of messages from Tom waiting. 

_I’m so sorry, H._

_Please forgive me. I promise I’m not lying to you._

_I know I don’t have a good track record._

_Baby_

Harry typed out a shaky reply. 

_No, it’s okay. I get it._

And then he turned his phone off. 

-

It was halfway through December when Harry realized that he was going to have to pull the plug sooner than later. He had been hoping Christmas orders would be what got him by for another few months, but they were sparse this year, even after posting near-incessant photos of all the baked goods available for special order on Instagram. They got a lot of likes, but not as many customers out of it as Harry had wanted. 

Niall and Liam were both idling behind the counter as Harry locked the front door and flipped the sign to ‘closed.’ He slumped against the door, defeated. 

“Obviously this has been coming for a while,” Harry started, feeling tears prick at his eyes before he’d barely started talking. 

“No,” Niall said, already knowing what he was going to say. He slid out from behind the counter and wrapped Harry in a hug, one that got tighter when Liam joined in. 

“We’re going to shut down at the end of the year,” Harry choked out. This sucked so, so hard, but he was so grateful he didn’t have to do it alone. He had his boys. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Liam asked. “You kept us hanging on for way longer than we ever thought.” 

“Dude, we thought we were toast over a year ago,” Niall said as he rubbed a hand up and down Harry’s back. “We love this shop, and we love you. And we’re all going to be okay.” 

Harry just tucked his face into the crook of Niall’s neck and sobbed. Let his friends hold him. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through to New Year’s, but he knew Niall and Liam would drag him across the finish line if need be. 

-

The regulars were heartbroken. It felt cathartic to talk to the people in his community who loved his grandma’s bakery for as long or longer than he has. People his age who grew up getting donuts and birthday cakes from his grandma, just like he did. As soon as he decided to close up shop, he knew that it was the right decision. Nothing lasts forever. 

About a week after he started letting customers know that New Year’s Eve was going to be their final day open, Louis walked into the bakery. He was carrying a coffee cup in one hand, and something large, flat, and square in the other. 

“Hey,” Harry said. Niall was somewhere in the back, ‘sad cleaning’ the big stand mixer. Whatever that meant. The part of Harry that thought that Louis was here to rub it in was rearing its head, but he was too tired to engage. “Guess you heard then.” 

Louis looked sad, but set the coffee cup in front of Harry. “Gingerbread latte,” he announced. “As a thank you for all those gingerbread croissants. I can’t believe—”

“Dude, I’m going to cry if you say anything, so please don’t.” He crossed his arms in front of him, but not in a combative way. More protective. 

“Okay,” Louis said, not pushing the issue. “I came mostly because I wanted to give you your Christmas present.” 

“You did not,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. Louis handed over the package. It was pretty unmistakably a record. “I didn’t get you anything.” 

“I didn’t get you this so you would owe me anything,” Louis said. “I just like giving gifts. It’s those million little siblings, you know?”

Harry could feel another part of his icy heart melt for Louis. It was hard to deny that Louis was the reason that his bakery was closing. Or, the coffee shop he was general manager for. But he really was a kind person. Kindness was a bigger turn-on for Harry than even the turtleneck under the coat Louis was wearing, and that was...saying something. 

“Go on,” Louis encouraged, raising his eyebrows in a clear _just unwrap it already_ gesture. 

Harry peeled back the paper, and as soon as he could tell it was Let it Bleed he dropped it to the counter and covered his face with both hands. 

“You’re kidding me, this is the best gift,” Harry groaned. 

“You sound disappointed,” Louis squawked, voice just this side of offended. 

“I didn’t get you anything and you got me _this_? How fair is that? This album has a fucking cake on it, Lou.” 

“As long as you think of me when you listen to it, we’re square,” he said, smile quirking up at the corner at the involuntary ‘Lou’ Harry had let slip out. Where had that come from? Louis leaned his elbows on the bakery case, and suddenly he was much closer to Harry. He smelled like coffee and tobacco, and if Harry wasn’t working through feeling absolutely crushed by his current life events, he would have maybe kissed him. 

“I can handle that,” Harry said, as he peeled the rest of the paper off of the record. He traced the album artwork with a finger. As a teenager, he’d tried to re-make the cake on the cover, to somewhat disastrous results. But he had a lot of free time coming up. He could try again. 

“And maybe you’ll let me make you dinner again,” Louis said. 

“That…” Harry said, thinking about the boy in his Twitter DMs who he still had these weird, complicated feelings for. Who seemed to get him so deeply, but was also playing him hot and cold. And here Louis was, only ever showing him consistent kindness. In Harry’s heart, he knew Louis wasn’t actually to blame for what was happening to his bakery. Consistency sounded nice to him. “Okay. That would be really nice.” 

-

Harry had a sad Christmas where everyone was too gentle with him, side stepping mentions of the bakery and alternating long sad looks with bouts of irrational upbeatness. 

He was grateful when it was over. 

He was grateful too, when the days wound down and it was finally The Last Day. He’d been dreading it for so long that when it came it was almost a relief. He couldn’t fear it anymore. The next day, he would wake up and he would be alive. And he would start looking for a job. 

He had baked only his favorites that day. The gingerbread croissants, kiwi tartlets, apple pie donuts, cookies shaped like Minnesotas. He baked his grandmother’s cardamom bread in her memory, and gave people slices of it when they came in to say goodbye. 

Tom had been messaging him consistently in the week leading up to this day. Constant strings of encouragement, sweet messages, playlists he’d made. Bad jokes. He felt almost coddled by him, and damnit if he didn’t deserve to be coddled a little. 

Liam was leaning over the counter flirting with Zayn who was there to “buy as many gingerbread croissants as possible” for Louis, so Harry pulled his phone out of his pocket when it buzzed, since the rest of the shop was empty. 

His phone was buzzing, predictably, because of Tom. And as the messages kept buzzing in, his jaw dropped. 

_Hey, Beautiful. I know you’re having a busy day._

_But maybe I can take your mind off of the stress? Wanna go to a new year’s party tonight?_

_I’ll pick you up._

His hands shook as he looked at the messages on his phone. The typing bubble popped up again before he could formulate a coherent enough thought to respond. 

_Promise I won’t flake. I owe you._

Harry smiled. His response was easy. 

_You do owe me. I accept._

Tom sent a string of lovey smiley faces, which was a little out of character for him. 

When he looked up from his phone, Zayn was gone, and Liam’s face probably looked exactly like his own did. 

“Why do you look like an idiot?” Harry asked, and Liam cracked up. 

“I could ask you the same. Zane just asked me to a New Year’s Eve party at his house.” Liam’s face looked exactly like a lovey smiley. He practically had little hearts floating around his face. 

“Tom just asked me the same,” Harry said. 

“You’re not getting serial killed on the last day of the year,” Liam argued. “That’s stupid.” 

“I’m not getting serial killed.” 

“I don’t know why you’re letting him string you along,” Liam argued. Liam was not at all supportive of Harry’s...whatever Tom was. Internet flirtation. “Didn’t Louis just ask you out to dinner not too long ago?” 

“Before Christmas,” Harry said. “Nothing’s happened on that front. Plus, what is it, 1950? A girl can date more than one boy at once.” 

“If he shows up,” Liam grumbled. 

“Alright fine. If Tom bails on me tonight, I’ll stop talking to him.” 

“If Tom bails, stop talking to him and tell Louis you’re going to cook him dinner.” 

“You’re making me feel like Elizabeth Bennett over here. I’m not going to die if I don’t get married before I’m thirty.” 

Liam’s face changed from the protective scowl he’d been wearing to something closer to the look he’d been giving Harry every time someone mentions that the bakery is closing. “I’m not trying to marry you off. I just think it would be nice for you to have some happiness. Maybe a distraction. Maybe some dick.” 

“You’re so thoughtful,” Harry said, voice as dry as the muffins from The Tomlinson Cup. 

“Alight whatever, what should we each wear tonight?” Liam asked, and the afternoon devolved from there. 

-

Locking up the bakery at the end of the last day had been emotional. Harry had cried. Liam had cried. Niall had cried. Gemma came for the final send off, and they cheers’d each other with four chocolate raised donuts Harry had saved for the moment. 

And then he went home alone to finish his crying, do a face mask, and eat dinner before Tom was due to pick him up. 

He’d felt weird about giving out his address, but he trusted Tom for some reason. And honestly, if someone was coming to kill him, it was a good enough time for it. It was morbid to think about, but if someone killed him tonight, he wouldn’t need to worry about making rent for February. 

It was nice to have something to take his mind off things. He put on the Stones album that Louis had given to him and danced around his apartment. He dug out some frozen fake chicken nuggets that he’d bought for Gemma at one point and threw them in the microwave. He thought about how he’d kinda been hoping Louis would have stopped in on his last day. Short of going to the coffee shop on his own, he wasn’t sure when he’d ever see Louis again. 

It was kind of a sad thought. 

Side A of his record ended, and he was just making his way over to the record player to flip it when he heard a knock on his door. He’d given Tom specific instructions that his apartment was a basement apartment with a walk-out back door, and to follow the path past the garage in order to get to it, wondering if he was giving too much information. Did he sound clingy already? Could instructions to your apartment be _clingy?_

He took a breath and held a hand out in front of him to gauge his nerves. His hand shook. He took another breath. Then he headed to the door and opened it to see...Louis. 

“Oh,” Harry said, incredibly confused. Seeing Louis at the shop for the last day would have been great. Here, now, he was just anxious about dealing with a lingering social obligation before Tom came. “Hi, Lou. What’s up? I actually have–”

Louis cut him off by holding up the bouquet of flowers in his hands that Harry hadn’t seen yet. “I should have told you about a thousand years ago,” Louis started. “But um. You and I are...friends online.” 

Harry’s brain wasn’t working. He was seeing Louis in a turtleneck, his short hair sideswept over his forehead, cheeks rosy from the cold. Winter was making its way into Harry’s apartment as they stood at the threshold and Harry shivered. He stepped back to gesture Louis inside while his brain came back online.

Louis had kept talking, even though Harry had clearly missed some of it. “...and we’d been talking for so long, but you always seemed angry to see me, and Zayn said that Liam said you were upset because of the coffee shop, and then when I saw you at the cafe when we agreed to meet, I froze up. I was afraid you’d reject me then, and I didn’t want to lose you.” 

“Wait, what are you saying to me?” Harry asked, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He leaned against the kitchen counter as Louis kept his wet boots square on the rug in front of the door to not drip over Harry’s kitchen. 

“I’m saying that my Twitter handle is @tommo28.” 

“No,” Harry said, unable to parse the information. He’d told Tom _so many things._ He’d flirted with him pretty relentlessly. They’d exchanged PG-13 headless photos of themselves. Tom called him ‘baby’ about forty times a day. “Tomlinson,” he said, finally putting it together. “Tom.” 

Louis nodded, expression apprehensive. “Yeah.” 

“And you knew.” 

“Since we made the first meet up plans. I saw you and I just thought…’fuck, I think he hates me,’ and so I just...I was scared.”

“But you still text me like...you call me baby,” Harry said, unable to meet Louis’ eyes. 

“I um, have had a crush on you since we first started messaging. And then when I saw you come into the coffee shop that first day, I had a crush on you pretty immediately then too. Kind of blew my mind to figure out my crushes were...just one crush.” 

“Sorry, I’m having a hard time processing,” Harry said. When he really gave Louis a look, his bottom lip was nervously between his teeth, flowers hanging down at his side. He’d brought daffodils. They were pretty. And distantly, the manners his mother taught him took over. “Let me put those in water. They’re lovely. Thank you.” 

He cut the ends of each stem and arranged them in the only vase he had, then put them on the kitchen table. 

“Do you want a donut? I took home the last of them,” he said, moving to the counter to open the bakery box that was sitting there with the final donuts that he’d ever make in his grandma’s bakery. 

“Oh, no, those are special,” Louis said. 

“They’ll never be as fresh as they are now ever again. Might as well.” He held out a plain glazed to Louis, who leaned out from his spot on the rug to accept it. Harry rolled his eyes. “Just take your shoes off,” he said. “We should probably talk a bit before we go.” 

Louis looked a little surprised, but slipped his boots off and took the donut from Harry, who had a glazed donut for himself in his other hand. He led the two of them into his living room. Harry sat on the couch, but Louis was distracted by his shelves of records, his neck instantly craning to the side to scope titles, all while absently taking bites of his donut. Harry remembered doing the same thing to Louis’ record collection when he’d been at his house. 

“So you still want to go? Like, I would mean this as a date, you know.” He sounded shy, talking to the record shelf. His nerves made Harry feel a little more comfortable. His nerves made him seem human. 

“We’ve kind of already been on a date,” Harry said, and saw the corner of Louis’ smile as he continued to peruse his records. 

“I still want to cook for you again,” Louis said, finally turning around and fixing his gaze on Harry. He popped the last bite of the donut into his mouth and sighed. “I’m going to miss good donuts.” 

“You only got yourself to blame,” Harry joked. “And I think it’s my turn to cook dinner.”

“So you’re not weirded out,” Louis asked. 

“No, I’m weirded out,” Harry said, crossing his legs and picking at his thumb nail. “But. Before you came over, I was thinking about how sad I was that I didn’t see you today. So. That means something, right?” 

Louis sat down in the chair that faced Harry, the coffee table between them. Harry kind of wanted to be in Louis’ lap, but he thought that was probably a function of how long it had been since he’d last gotten laid, coupled with some crush feelings that had been on simmer for too long, both for Louis as Harry knew him, and for Tom. 

“That night I asked you to come over but you said you were babysitting…” Harry asked, his brain still trying to fit all of the pieces of Louis and Tom together. He blushed, thinking about how badly he’d wanted a virtual stranger in his bed that night. 

“I actually was babysitting,” Louis said. “My little siblings. All of them. It was...a mad house.” Harry watched as Louis’ face went soft talking about them. “What would you have done if I’d showed up at your house that night?”  
  
“I was so sad that night. And so distracted. I might not have even noticed. Just dragged you to my bed.” Harry watched Louis’ eyebrows shoot straight up in perfect half circle arches. “For comfort,” Harry clarified. “Jeez, what kind of girl do you think I am?” 

“A respectable one, of course,” Louis said. 

“Alright, Louis Tomlinson, should we get out of here?” 

“You still want to go with me?” Louis said, his expression brightening. He was so beautiful, and now Harry felt like he could let himself look. Let the floodgates on his crush open. Let it overwhelm him. It’s not like he had anything else to do. 

Harry nodded. “I want a glass of champagne and a midnight kiss, and I don’t have any champagne here, so we’re going to have to go somewhere. Rumor has it that you know about a party.” 

-

They walked into Zayn’s house with Louis’ hand on Harry’s lower back, already testing the physical limits of being together. Harry had hastily shot Liam a text when he’d realized that he’d be at Zayn’s, a quick _turns out Tom is Louis. Louis is Tom. They’re the same person. We’re on our way to Zayn’s. If you have to make this weird, make it weird like, tomorrow because I like him okay._

All he got back was _zayn kissed me :)_ so he figured Liam would be pretty occupied. 

The house was packed. Harry was fairly certain he hadn’t been to a house party like this since college, but instead of red cups and people barfing in the sink, someone was tending to a record player in the corner, and everyone’s drinks were in clear plastic cups. Classy. The champagne was even in flutes. 

Plastic flutes, but flutes. 

“Let’s get you a drink,” Louis said, leading Harry into the kitchen through the crowd of people. Louis grabbed them beers from a cooler, and if it hadn’t been a first date, Harry would have rolled his eyes at the fact that it was local craft brew. Whenever you do anything slow and intentional in your life (like bake your own croissants) people assume that you also want to talk about craft beer with them.  
  
But it was free, and Louis looked beautiful, and everything felt new and different on the eve of a brand new year. Maybe the scariest year of his life. So he took the beer, and they hovered in the kitchen. 

The island was covered in snacks, and Harry had just eaten. But he was also nervous, and there was a charcuterie board and a vegetable spread, and every kind of chip and salsa and guac one could want. They made little plates of snacks and huddled in the corner of the kitchen together. 

“This is Zayn’s house he shares with a few roommates,” Louis explained, “so I don’t really know a whole lot of people.” 

“I think Zayn and Liam are probably making out,” Harry confided. They hadn’t seen either of them as of yet, and they’d seen most of the downstairs. 

“Are they?” Louis asked, eyebrows shooting up. “And what makes you think that?”  


“Liam texted me that Zayn kissed him.” 

“Finally,” Louis sighed, letting one of his hands casually find Harry’s waist. It was warm, and all of the sudden, it was the only thing Harry could focus on. “I have endured months of listening to him tell me about the giant crush he had on one of the boys from the bakery.” 

Harry smiled. “I heard the other side of that mutual crushing.” 

“Of course, Zayn endured basically the same conversation right back at him. ‘He’s so cute and he’s a baker,’” Louis said, making fun of himself. The hand on Harry’s hip disappeared, only to cup Harry’s cheek, thumb momentarily grazing over the softness of Harry’s skin. Before Harry could even blush properly, the hand had dropped back to his waist. 

“And here I was, spending months trying to figure out if I had a bigger crush on the boy who was destroying my business, or the boy who was relentlessly hitting on me on the internet, but kept avoiding actually meeting up.” 

“Oh, baby,” Louis said, voice quiet. Harry felt a shiver through his whole body at that word. He’d been waiting to hear it out loud without even realizing it. “If I could do some things differently, I would.” 

Their conversation got quiet after that, and they drifted closer and closer together, opting for proximity instead of volume to hear each other. Harry finished his beer and declined another, and one of Zayn’s roommates, Amy, showed up with her boyfriend, and Louis introduced them and chatted a bit about the coffee shop. Amy was a barista too and used to work with Zayn at a Starbucks. It was nice to have a bit of a conversation going on around him that he didn’t have to participate much in, even though Amy seemed to know who Harry was, if her raised eyebrows when they were introduced were anything to go by. 

With twenty minutes to midnight, Louis poured them champagne and led them upstairs. 

“I told you I’m not that kind of girl,” Harry joked as they passed closed bedroom door after closed bedroom door. When they got to the end of the hall, Louis opened the final door. But instead of the stranger’s bedroom he was expecting, it was a burst of chilly, open air. They were outside on the second story front porch which was, by some miracle, deserted. 

“It’s a little chilly,” Louis said, “but there are blankets.” 

Louis led him to the couch and draped blankets over them, leaving their drinks on the table next to the couch. Harry shivered, but Louis was warm, offering an arm for Harry to curl under. He did. 

“It feels a bit like I hardly know you at all, and also like you’re one of my best friends,” Harry said, almost unable to explain the ease he felt with this proximity. “I’ve never been on a first date with someone who knows all my existential fears. Who knows I just had one of the worst days of my adult life. Who has eaten an impressive number of my gingerbread croissants.” 

“Please tell me you’ll still make those.” 

“Probably not in my pain in the ass kitchen,” Harry sighed. “It made sense to live in that tiny apartment when I had a commercial kitchen a few blocks away. Now...I can hardly imagine making cupcakes in it.” 

“You can always bake in my kitchen if you want. Even if I’m not home or whatever. Lots of counter space.” 

“Really?” Harry asked.  


“Yeah. Even if you’re not baking me croissants. If you have stuff you need to bake that you can’t make at your place, mine is open.” 

“That’s really sweet of you.” Harry shifted a bit to snuggle into Louis’ side. Louis let his fingers comb through Harry’s hair, and Harry hummed into it. “Mmm you keep doing that, and I’ll be asleep by midnight. Baker’s hours and all. I’m surprised I’m still awake.” 

“Are you going to sleep in tomorrow?” Louis asked. Harry could feel the music from the house reverberating through the porch. The neighborhood around them felt active and awake as everyone awaited the new year. Harry had a few ideas of what he could do now that he wasn’t tied down, but he hadn’t really thought anything all the way through. But sleeping in sounded like a good first plan. 

“I think so,” Harry said. “At least until seven.” 

“I have the day off tomorrow too,” Louis said. 

“Sounds like a suggestion.” 

“It is if you want it to be.” 

“You want to sleep in with me?” Harry asked. He wasn’t a big dater. He had tried online dating to disastrous results, and the one time he tried to have a one night stand, he chickened out. But he knew Louis. He knew that Louis would make him a playlist for a tough day, would dig his car out of a snow bank, would bring him fancy coffee as an excuse to see his face. He knew Louis was protective of who he cared about, and he knew that Louis loved Minneapolis as much as he did. And he wasn’t a thousand percent sure what he was asking Louis for, other than waking up together the next morning, but it made his heart feel just a little lighter. 

“I would love nothing more,” Louis said. He sounded serious. Harry was trying to remember what he’d told Louis, through eighty million Twitter DMs, and whether he’d revealed his preference to have a little more stability in a relationship than a one night stand could offer. Maybe he had. 

Inside, the party started to count down from ten, and Louis grabbed their drinks from the side table. 

“What do you wish for this year?” Louis asked him, eyes clear, focused, intense. 

“Somewhere to bake,” Harry said, ticking the first obvious thing off the list. He bit his lower lip as he thought, the countdown hitting six, then five. “And maybe you.” 

Louis’ smile broke open, sunshine across his face. Harry thought he’d maybe been spending the night trying to be cool, look cool, act cool. He didn’t know him well enough to call him on his shit yet, but he wanted to get to know him that well. 

Downstairs, Harry could hear _three, two, one,_ and he wasn’t the least bit surprised when Louis’ fingertips caught his jaw and guided their mouths together for a soft, slow kiss. The one he’d asked for before they had left Harry’s apartment earlier that night. 

And maybe the new year wouldn’t be a total disaster. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! My tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://sweettartine.tumblr.com/post/636805443151429633/its-not-personal-its-business-by-sweettartine), if you'd like to reblog it.


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